A Study In Magic
by Reichenfeels
Summary: Young wizard Sherlock Holme's fifth year at Hogwarts is turned upside down as he makes an unlikely friend in Gryffindor John Watson. The two  band together to try to solve a mystery that is haunting the Hogwarts students.
1. Chapter 1

A Study in Magic

Chapter 1

The candle on the desk was flickering down on its last nub of wick as he leaned over the desk, writing vehemently in the little black leather-bound book, quill scratching loudly across the parchment in his excitement.

…_It can therefore be deduced that it was the jealous ex-wife who placed the silencing spell on the muggle woman, because her husband had had sexual relations with her during their since-divorced relationship. _

He quickly scanned the letter, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and signed it with a flourish: "_Anyone with a brain could see that. Sincerely, SH"_ he grinned, blowing on the paper to dry it before ripping it out of the book and placing it in an envelope, addressing it to the ministry. He would have to borrow Mycroft's owl before they left in the coming morning. Sloppily throwing his materials into his trunk (save the journal, which he slipped into his coat pocket), he turned in a circle around the dark room, making sure nothing was forgotten. Deciding his packing had been adequate, he fell onto the bed, making his little cat Hudson screech softly and run for cover. He had just closed his gray eyes to sleep for the night when the door flew open.

"SHERLOCK WE CANNOT BE LATE!" Mycroft strode into the room and Sherlock groaned without looking up at his brother, pulling his pillow over his face. "Excuse me," Mycroft hissed, pulling aside the pillow, wand pointed at Sherlock's nose, "But prefects and head boys have to be on the platform an hour early, so can you for once hurry it along?"

"Yes, wouldn't want to cost you any time to show off in front of the first years, would we?" Sherlock snapped, eyes narrowed. He made no move to back away from his brother's wand, infuriating Mycroft any more.

"Now, Sherlock!" he yelled before storming out of the room. Sherlock smirked and sat up, pulling aside the curtain behind his bed. It was raining, but definitely daytime; he'd stayed up all night solving ministry mysteries. _Again_. It was really no wonder why he even bothered going to school at all anymore. Should he reveal himself to the ministry, he would certainly be hired on the spot. Deciding that this would be his plan of action should the school year be dreadfully boring, he scooped Hudson out of her hiding spot in the closet and set her on top of his trunk, where she sat watching him wearily. Changing into a pair of dark trousers and a button down shirt, he grabbed his coat and green and silver scarf, setting them on the trunk, bounding down the three-story home to the kitchen where his mother was taking pictures of Mycroft in his head boy badge. Resisting the urge to vomit, he took the large barn owl from his cage, ignored the questions his brother yelled about what he was doing with his bird, and went back up to his room.

"Another case successfully solved by the mysterious S.H." he said with a smug smile, watching the owl fly off with his letter. Pulling on his coat and scarf and cradling Hudson in one arm while dragging his trunk behind him, he made his way outside to the car, where he was once again yelled at for being late, and Mycroft was once again ignored.

They were halfway to London, Sherlock taking up the entire back seat with Mycroft's empty cage and Hudson in his lap, tapping his fingers against her spine as he mimicked chords, composing in his head. His violin was in the back of the care with his things, but he had wished kept it with him. It would have drowned out his brothers incessant droning about the ministry, anyway. He looked out onto the nearly-empty speedway and was surprised the see a little gray owl struggling to keep pace with the car. He opened the window and the little bird flew in, dropping a small slip of paper on his lap. Hudson eyed the bird but made no attempt to attack it; this owl was very familiar. Grinning, Sherlock unrolled the slip of paper and read it. It was simple letter written in a sharp, small script:

"_In the car behind you. How is it that I can hear Mycroft bragging from here? –SS"_

Sherlock turned around to look out the rear window and sure enough, the little silver sedan was trudging behind them, the driver a tall, stern looking man. The passenger made a face as if to say "kill me" and Sherlock had to smile. Pulling a quill out of the rucksack at his feet he wrote on the back of the note:

"_Cannot form coherent answer. Too enthralled by the amazing new muggle safety division at the Ministry and the Queen who aspires to rule over it. –SH_"

He rolled up the little note and handed it to the owl, who slipped out the window again. Sherlock glanced behind him to see his friend read the note and laugh, only to be silenced by a stern look from his stepfather. Severus shrugged and grinned, and Sherlock smirked back, turning his attention back to the music notes.

When they pulled up to Kings Cross station, the Holmes boys got out of the car while their mother coddled Mycroft, telling him how proud she was to have a head boy in the family. Sherlock skulked behind them, rolling his gray eyes. Severus came up behind them, his trunk already on a luggage cart. "Goodmorning, Mrs. Holmes…" he said quietly. She nodded curtly without actually looking him in the eye, and Sherlock gave him a meaningful look. Mycroft was ignored, and he ignored Severus – Their relationship was easier that way, as they infuriated each other.

Sherlock gave a small goodbye to his mother, who told him sternly that he was not to get into trouble, threw his trunk on top of Severus's, and the two abandoned Mycroft and their parents. "I don't know what I would like better, being trapped in a vehicle with your prat of a brother of saying absolutely nothing the entire ride with my stepfather." Severus groaned, his nasally voice whining. Sherlock glanced at him, knowing he would take the silence over Mycroft any day, but didn't press it. He knew Severus just wanted to complain.

As they walked, Severus blathering on about something he saw on the telly the night before, Sherlock was glancing at the mix of people around Kings Cross, pointing them out in his mind: businessman, first year, divorcee, prefect, field trip, student. He felt a hand slap the back of his head, "Sherlock are you listening to me?" Severus said, looking at him sternly.

"No." He answered plainly, "What?"

Severus pointed to platform nine and three-quarters and Sherlock saw, standing just outside the barrier, a young woman with dark red hair and vibrant green eyes, talking to a boy of the same age with messy dark hair and glasses. Lilly Evens and that prat James Potter. Sherlock looked to Severus, "We can wait until they are gone…" he said finally, knowing it bothered Snape how much she fancied the Potter kid. He shook his head and Sherlock sighed, not looking forward to the coming interaction.

They pressed on toward the platform, and James's brown eyes found them first. He grinned, "Oh look, the creepy brothers." He said.

Lilly gave him a scolding look and walked toward them, "Hello Sherlock. Hello Sev." She smiled kindly and Severus gave a small greeting, his face blotched from the insult. Sherlock sighed and looked away from the awkward interaction, studying James instead, who leaned against a trash bin fiddling his wand out in plain sight. The idiot. He vaguely heard Lilly give him a goodbye, and he nodded in acknowledgment, following Severus as he nearly sprinted through the barrier and onto the train platform.

"That. Conceded. _Twat._" Severus fumed, "Did you see the way he was twirling his want like that, showing off for the whole world to see?" He continued to insult Potter for a good ten minutes as they found a compartment on the train and sat down, Sherlock pulling out his violin and plucking the strings lightly, staring out the window. Hudson walked over to Severus and mewed, rubbing against his legs. He picked her up gently and stroked her back, "Hello Miss Hudson." He said to the cat fondly. Sherlock glanced at him, remembering the day they had bought her, five years ago from Diagon Alley. Severus had named her Hudson, and as revenge he deemed the little owl, the only owl Severus could afford, Bach. Lilly had been with them that day, as her parents were muggles and hopeless. The three had lived on the same street for their entire lives, but he hadn't spent much as much time with her as Severus had. He didn't understand the infatuation he had with her, nor did he really fight to educate himself on the subject of love. She had also gotten a cat that day, but Sherlock didn't remember the name.

The train ride to Hogwarts flew by, Sherlock testing out his composition and re-writing notes most of the way, while Severus had his nose stuck in one of his textbooks. Occasionally he would as where they were, and Sherlock could look glance out the window and know exactly the city and the number of hours until they arrived. It was an easy relationship, theirs, Sherlock let Severus talk and Severus never pushed Sherlock to. Sherlock supposed Severus was the closest he would ever get to having a friend.

It was dark when they decided to change into their robes, silver Slytherin insignias gleaming in the pale lamplight. Mycroft strode by on his head boy rounds, his Ravenclaw uniform perfectly pressed. He glanced into the compartment and strode past as if it was empty, which was exactly the way Sherlock preferred. He had been so relieved, in his first year, that he hadn't ended up in the same house as his pompous brother. Thankfully he would be finished with Hogwarts this year, and he could be left in peace.

They arrived outside Hogsmeade, the rain falling so heavily that you could not see the outline of the castle in the distance. Sherlock gingerly placed Hudson in his rucksack and they rushed with the others to the carriages, completely soaked in moments. With their dark hair and tall, thin frames, the two fifth-years really could have been brothers. The only difference was Sherlock's bright gray eyes and Severus's deep-set black ones. They ended up in a carriage with three Gryffindors, whom Sherlock vaguely recognized from the Quiddich team. Two of them, the dark-skinned girl and the tall, stocky-built boy, were sixth-years and, from their lithe, smooth movements, were chasers. The other, a fifth-year, was shorter with close-cut golden hair and kind blue eyes that shined like a puppy's might. He was a beater, though, which seemed to conflict with his seemingly gentle nature. They all laughed at the state of them, dripping wet as they were, and Sherlock and Severus looked in opposite directions, not making conversation, but Sherlock was fixated on them, listening to them joke easily with each other. He glanced at Severus and frowned.

As they stepping into the castle, a some sort of spell drying them completely as they entered, Severus scoffed, "Why do Gryffindors think they are so perfect?" he asked.

Sherlock blinked at him, "I didn't find a fault with those kids…" he replied, frowning. Severus gaped at him, and Sherlock could read the very slight disappointment on him. This, he thought, wasn't exactly fair—to him or Gryffindor as a house, but he didn't comment on it. Severus complained; that's what he did.

As they sat at the Slytherin table, others joined in around them, greeting Sherlock with sly smirks. They ignored Severus as equally as he ignored them. The sorting began, and a fourth-year with an Irish accent, leaned across the table. "I've got five sickles on tonight's supper." He whispered. Sherlock smirked and glanced around as the others surrounding them leaned forward.

"Three on Malarky." The boy on his right whispered, sliding his coins onto the center of the table.

"Holmes." Said another, setting the coins down.

"Sherlock." Severus said, nodding.

Two more put in on the fourth-year. Sherlock gestured for him to start, failing to hide his amusement. This was tradition, had been since their first year. "Duck. Boiled potatoes. And sourdough rolls." He whispered, looking stupidly confident.

Sherlock grinned, "Turkey. _Sweet_ potatoes. Rye." He said smoothly, his deep voice resonating enough to be heard over the cheering over at Hufflepuff as they gained another first-year. Sherlock shook Malarky's hand and waited patiently as the headmaster Dippet came and welcomed them all to another school year. The speech droned on; don't enter the forest without supervision, quidditch tryouts to begin in three weeks, et cetera. Finally he clapped his hands and the food appeared on the table. Turkey. Sweet potatoes. Rye bread.

Malarky cursed and Severus and the blond girl who had also bet on him grinned, collecting their money. Severus slapped a sickle into Sherlock's hand, "I don't know why they bother." He said, grabbing a roll with a long-fingered hand.

"How do you _do_ that?" Malarky asked, dumbfounded.

"Deduction." Sherlock replied simply. He stared at him confusedly, so Sherlock sighed. "It has been raining in the countryside where they raise the ducks for roasting, it would have been very hard to gather and slaughter them in a downpour. It, however, has been dry in Ireland. Not good for the potatoes, but the weather is quite nice in America where the sweet potatoes are grown." He shrugged again, pouring himself a goblet of water.

"And the rye?" the boy pressed.

"Lucky guess." He grinned and sipped his drink.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sherlock was already in the Great Hall, sipping tea and reading the Prophet, when Severus came down. He sat across from Sherlock and greeted him groggily. Sherlock ignored him, scribbling in his little notebook. Professor Slughorn waddled over to them, a large grin on his fat face, "Severus! Sherlock, my boy! So good to see you!" he cried amiably.

Severus shook his hand and kicked Sherlock under the table. "What?" he asked, and then turned to Slughorn, "Oh. Sorry professor, I was reading." He said, slamming his notebook closed. Severus was the only one who knew that he was the SH that solves ministry problems without ever setting foot on a crime scene.

"Already working hard I see. Don't work TOO hard now, my boy." Slughorn gave a hearty wink and handed both the boys their schedules, waddling away to greet his other Slytherin students. Sherlock glanced at it briefly, memorizing it, before returning to the Prophet.

"Divination? Are you shitting me? Why do I need divination?" Severus groaned and snatched Sherlock's schedule, "Ancient runes? Seriously? Prat." He rolled his eyes and set the parchment back next to Sherlock's book.

Sherlock read through the article, but it was ridiculously short and lacked detail. He sighed, writing in his book: "Subscribe to other papers." He had to admit the muggle invention of the Internet would be useful, but electricity didn't run inside Hogwarts and the spells to keep it hidden made getting a signal impossible. Finally he looked up at Severus, "You have Potions first, yes?" he asked. Severus glanced at his schedule and nodded, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

"Anything interesting?" he asked lightly.

"Yes but the bloody Prophet writes such mundane details it's hard to come up with answers." Sherlock said, gesturing to the paper. Severus snatched it, reading it over. He shrugged and handed it back to Sherlock, but he waved it off.

Severus huffed, "Well I'm going to get my books then…" he stuffed one more piece of toast in his mouth and left without further comment.

Sherlock took another sip of his tea and examined the students in the room; the upperclassmen were mostly complaining about the amount of work they were taking on that year, the first years bouncing excitedly about classes like charms and transfiguration. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Across the room, he spotted the Gryffindor table, specifically a group of students sitting toward the end of the table, each with a broomstick balanced on the benches between them. Among the group was that Potter kid Severus hated so much, the one who fancied Lilly. He didn't have much of an opinion of him, only that he was cocky and show-offy, which he admired in himself and which put him off in others. With him was his little gang of friends, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew. Remus and Peter weren't on the house team, but they were never far off from Potter. The three students from the carriage were there too. Sherlock was vague on their names. They seemed to be eating quickly, catching up on their summers, on the way out for a spontaneous quidditch practice. Sherlock glanced up at the enchanted ceiling. It was still pouring rain. Snorting in amusement, he shook his head and gathered his things, headed down to the dungeon to the Slytherin common room.

Sherlock strode into the Potions classroom, the pale green lighting already making him feel in his element. He took his spot next to Severus in the front row of the class and pulled out his book and his quill, noticing none of the others had cauldrons out just yet. Slughorn sat at the desk, his large belly seeming to swallow his chair, smiling as the fifth-years filed in. The Slytherins shared this class with Gryffindor, and the divide in the room was apparent. No one intermingled. When the clock stuck 10 o'clock exactly, Slughorn stood slowly and waddled to the front of the class. He carried with him a small class bowl filled with slips of paper.

"Welcome! Welcome to Advanced Potion making. I see you have all found a seat and a partner with whom you are comfortable. I am sorry to disappoint you but I shall be assigning partners to you! Maybe you shall meet your new best friend!" Sherlock heard a snort come from the back of the class, and had to agree. It was highly unlikely that anyone would end up in a favorable situation here. Slughorn smiled, ignoring the mumbles of frustration throughout the room. He began pulling student names from the glass bowl and people grudgingly went to sit with their new partners. Severus was placed with the girl who had bet on Sherlock the night before, but he looked at his friend with a frown before going to sit with her. Sherlock could instantly see there was an uneven amount of students in the class, and, as luck would have it, he was the last one to be called. He took the empty workstation behind Severus and the girl and pulled out his equipment. He actually didn't mind working alone. He would rather be alone then to get someone incompetent as he was: he was brilliant at the practical questions, but actually _creating _the potions was another story. That's why he liked working with Severus, who was a genius potion maker in every respect.

Slughorn began the class by asking a few questions from their classes in years past, to assess what they remembered. Sherlock and Severus dominated the entire section, answering every question before anyone could even raise their hands. Slughorn grinned at them and awarded them each ten points, which made Severus turn to his friend with a smug smile mirroring his own.

Slughorn had begun to discuss the potion they were to complete by the end of class, a draught that would make one sleep dreamlessly, when a set of running footsteps could be heard in the hall outside. In a moment the dungeon door was opened, and the boy from the carriage, the blond one, came in. His face was red from exertion and he was panting, hair dripping with rain. "S-sorry, professor!" he said, leaning his weight forward on his thighs, "Quidditch practice ran late." He panted, blushing as he realized the entire class was staring.

"I shall forgive you so long as Gryffindor doesn't beat my Slytherin in our first match!" Slughorn said, wagging a finger at him. "You'll be paired with Mr. Holmes, then!" he clapped his hands together as if this was a perfect fit, but Sherlock groaned inwardly. The boy didn't look too happy about it either. He nodded to Slughorn and slowly made his way to the table, rifling through his rucksack to get his book. With a few more basic instructions, Slughorn left them to it.

The boy looked to Sherlock, holding out a large, worn hand, "John Watson." He said, smiling. "Sorry I was late. James seems to think that we need to practice, even though we're short three since the Denali triplets left last year." He shook his head, little drops of water flying from the gold hair.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock replied, glancing at him. He seemed amiable enough, though the chit-chat was going to be annoying. "We're doing a dreamless sleep draught." He added, as John was leaning over to see what page of the book Sherlock was on.

"Oh, brilliant. I make this for my sister a lot at home." John flipped open the page and pulled out his little box of ingredients. Sherlock had to admit he was shocked; he didn't realize John was good at potions, hadn't really paid attention to other students before.

It became apparent to John that Sherlock was hopeless almost instantly, but instead of insulting him, he smoothly took control of the project and gave Sherlock mundane tasks to do, like crushing the beetle wings and straining the essence of dormis. With John's gentle hand they were able to be one of the first ones done, and when Slughorn came around to check he nodded with a smile and tapped the cauldron with his wand, making its contents disappear. Many of the other students were still working, so John leaned back in his seat, stretching.

Sherlock looked at him awkwardly, "I'm sorry." It was out of character for him to apologize, but he knew what it was like, working with an idiot. "Potions is the one thing I just can't seem to master."

John smiled at him, "It's no problem. I've seen you in other classes, you're brilliant. Especially runes." Sherlock blinked in surprise, not realizing people noticed him much at all. "I'll tell you what. I'll make sure you don't look like an idiot in this class, if you help me not look like an idiot in Ancient Runes."

Sherlock felt oddly touched. No one had ever asked him to be a tutor before. He smiled very vaguely and held out a hand, "It's a deal, then." John's blue eye shone happily, and Sherlock felt that for once he might actually like another human for reasons other than their brains or their ability to not speak for long periods of time. John was kind and he was capable, so unlike Severus, who was often cold and loved to whine. John was very popular too, and Sherlock knew his association to Severus, plus his large amounts of genius, made him an instant outcast. It wouldn't hurt to befriend someone whom everyone seemed to like.

Class ended several minutes later, and John waved goodbye, promising to see him in Runes at 3 that afternoon. Severus caught up to him in the hall, "Sorry 'bout your partner." He said, smirking.

"Sorry? Why?" he looked to Severus in confusion.

"Oh come off it. He's a Gryffindor beater! The very epitome of a royal dick." Severus looked at him, exasperated.

"No…He is a Gryffindor beater. But he isn't a dick." Sherlock felt like he should defend John. Severus often judged people before really knowing them, judged them based on association and upbringing, and while Sherlock rarely agreed, he hardly ever said anything to Severus about it. "He's nice, he isn't incompetent, and he asked if I could help him with his Runes."

Severus snorted, "Yeah. Okay. Just wait until your little boyfriend is running around with Potter, calling us the creepy twins. Then we'll see how he is."

"Severus, just because Potter is in Gryffindor doesn't mean everyone in Gryffindor is a prat." He said flatly, ignoring Severus as he scowled and stalked away.

Sherlock hadn't seen Severus since their little row. He went to his other classes, gained 20 points for his house, and ate lunch by himself, occasionally writing down little observations or thoughts in his notebook. When 3 o'clock came around he was sitting patiently in a desk in the front of his Runes class, ignoring the annoying laughter coming from behind him from Potter's gang. John came in just before class was set to start.

"Johnny! We saved you a seat!" Sirius cried happily, patting the desk beside him in the back of the class.

John, ever the charmer, greeted his teammates amiably. "Actually," he said after they had joked around for a little, "I'm gonna sit with Holmes. He's tutoring me." Sherlock stiffened and glanced behind him to the group of boys, most of whom were looking at him with a mix of confusion and disgust.

"You're gonna sit with creepy 1?" James whispered, laughing unkindly.

"Yes, I am going to sit with Sherlock." John replied, his voice clipped. He obviously didn't respond well to unkindness. "He's my potions partner and he promised to help me. And unlike you, James, I actually have intentions to get good marks in this class." With that, John turned around and took the seat next to Sherlock. "Hullo again." He greeted him brightly.

Sherlock nodded in greeting and glanced at James, who was whispering to Sirius. They both kept looking at him and laughing. "Look, you don't have to sit with me. Your friends—"

John waved him off, "Oh to hell with them. They aren't even really my friends, just teammates. They're idiots most of the time." He hunched forward over his desk as Professor Babbling came in. They spent the rest of the class in silence, taking detailed notes. When the class ended, John turned to him, "So does tomorrow work? In the library? I've got practice until 5 and then dinner, but after that I'm free." Sherlock nodded, a little surprised John genuinely wanted his help. His face lit up with a smile, "Great! I'll find you in the great hall. Goodbye!" he waved and left, and Sherlock was left with the deep impression that he liked John Watson, the Gryffindor Beater, much more than Severus Snape, the skulky loner.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

In the following weeks, the downpour finally made it's exit, leaving the sun shining brightly over the Hogwarts grounds. Sherlock and John quickly became the highest-marked students of their class, mostly due to the fact that they studied together nearly every night. John always made an effort to stop by the Slytherin table and say hello to Sherlock and Severus during lunchtimes, and Sherlock greeted John likewise in the halls. Their relationship was an easy one, John's happy nature balancing Sherlock's general angst, Sherlock's frankness mirroring John's sarcasm. Sherlock felt himself happier just after a few days with John.

Severus hated it. During dinners, when everyone sat with their respective houses, he often made snide remarks about the Gryffindor Quidditch team, most of which Sherlock ignored. He had known Severus a long time, and that history made him feel compelled to at least tolerate him, but Sherlock found himself comparing him to John, which he knew wasn't a fair comparison at all. They were night and day, really. It didn't help that Sherlock could read him like a book. Most days it just made him more annoyed with Severus.

He admitted this annoyance to John one night in early October. They were sitting in a house-neutral common room that was mostly unused. Not many people socialized outside of their houses. The roaring fireplace made weird shadows under Sherlock's high, pronounced cheekbones, his gray eyes gleaming with frustration. They had given up their studies for the night and had instead turned to conversation.

"How's your friend? Severus, right?" John asked, crossing his legs squarely and leaning back in the plush armchair. His hair seemed to be made of gold in the firelight.

Sherlock scoffed, "Friend. I'd hardly call him that anymore."

"What happened? Have a row?" Sherlock examined him. His postured told him he was an open person, but the way he kept his hands closed said he wasn't interested in spreading rumors or even tell anyone. His eyebrows were knit together in actual concern.

"Not exactly." Sherlock pressed his hands together as though in prayer, "Just haven't been connecting as much. He's so cynical."

John laughed, "So are you, though."

Sherlock blinked at him, not realizing that John noticed so much, "Well, like repels like, you know." He said vaguely.

"So, what? You _want_ someone to argue with?" John crossed his hands behind his head.

"I'm not really the kind of person who _wants_ friends." He frowned, "Which probably explains why I don't have any." Sherlock felt a little crestfallen at the realization. He was actually fairly lonely at times.

"Well, I'm your friend." John said plainly, "And so is Severus, even if he does annoy you. Why does he annoy you?" his blue eyes were curious and kind.

Sherlock bit onto his bottom lip, sizing John up. He knew, of course, that he could trust John. But he was a tiny bit afraid that John would be put off by him. "Has anyone ever told you about my talent?" he asked slowly. He knew teasing him and Severus was a pastime of the Gryffindor fifth-years.

John chuckled softly, his eyes apologetic. "They said you can tell a man his life story in one look." He was sugar-coating things, but Sherlock was grateful for it.

"Yes, something like that. I'm very good at reading people," Sherlock said cautiously. "It isn't hard, really, but most people don't bother to learn how. It requires a lot of detail-oriented memorization. I can look at someone at tell how many siblings they have and whether or not they enjoyed their breakfast."

John's eyes light up, "That's BRILLIANT. Could you read me?" he leaned forward excitedly.

"I—really?" Sherlock frowned. Most people felt insecure when Sherlock read them. John nodded though, excitement clear on his face. "Well…" The truth was Sherlock had been studying John since they first met, but he paused in order to let him think we was just now trying to. Might as well try not to make John think he was a stalker. "You come from a broken home. One sibling, I believe you said it was your sister. One of your parents is out of the picture, your father, as you wear an old fashioned men's ring on your right ring finger. Your mother is a good woman and has a decent job but it isn't enough to support a nearly-adult daughter with a drinking problem and a growing son. You, then, take on the responsibility of your sister, who is a squib, as she doesn't come here and your mother isn't old enough to have a daughter older than the age of 19. You've borne much of the burden of caring for your family since the death of your father, who was, I'm guessing, an auror. But you're clever and you're strong. Your wand, for example, is oak, with a dragon heartstring core. That right there could tell another life story. You wish to carry on your father's legacy and so you put much pressure on yourself to get good marks in school and participate in athletics in order to stay strong." Sherlock huffed, mussing his chocolate brown curls as he looked to John with bated breath.

"Wow." He looked genuinely shocked.

Sherlock frowned, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to scare you off." He felt like an idiot for bringing it up in the first place.

"No. That was…amazing." He laughed, his hand over his mouth in shock. "You do this to everyone? Everyone you see, you can read like this?"

"Usually. It gets annoying after a while, but you can't turn it on and off like a tap." Sherlock sat back in the chair, hands pressed together, resting against his lips. "That's why Severus is getting on my nerves so much. Even if he doesn't say what he thinks, which is rare, I can see it so plainly on him."

"What sort of things does he 'say'?" John pressed, eyes locked on Sherlock with a mix of compassion and admiration.

"He hates that Potter kid. Like _really_ hates him. And because of that he categorizes the entire Gryffindor house into one giant house of people who piss him off. I think he's jealous of how much time we spend together." He eyed John, who actually seemed upset to hear this.

"But I've never even said a word against him." John said, frowning.

"Guilty by association. In his mind anyway." Sherlock shrugged, twirling his wand in his hand, staring at the fire.

"Huh…" John, too, stared into the fireplace, seeming genuinely unhappy about this news.

Sherlock decided to change the subject, "So what about your friends? The sixth-years?" Sherlock had seen John with those two more than the Potter gang.

"Oh. Greg and Sally? Yeah they're great. Hardly see them though, only at practice really. To be honest I see more of you than any of them." He grinned across the table to Sherlock, who smiled back.

"And you don't have a girlfriend either?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, trying to decide if the rumors were true.

John just laughed, "No not at the moment. You?"

Sherlock turned to look at him and saw the same curious, determined look on John's face that he had worn when he asked. He chuckled, "No. Not really my area. Even if girls _would_ talk to me, which most don't." he shrugged. Sherlock was a straightforward kind of person; he was well aware that his dark hair, light eyes, and bone structure made him what most would consider attractive. He always figured such traits were wasted on him, as he rarely connected with anyone, let alone women. He just…wasn't interested.

"Same here. Well, I mean, no. Girls talk to me. But I don't have time for dating and such. I prefer to be unattached." He shrugged. "So, are you going on the Hogsmeade trip this weekend?" John asked, turning so his legs hung off the arm of the chair and his head hung back, making little rings of smoke erupt from the tip of his wand.

Sherlock thought about it. To be honest he didn't even know there was a trip coming up. Mycroft had made his mother sign a permission slip for him, hoping it would inspire Sherlock to get out more, but it sat untouched at the bottom of his trunk. "I hadn't thought about it." He said finally.

"You should come with us!" John looked at him, grinning, "It'll be fun. They just opened a new joke shop."

Sherlock thought about it. He didn't know Greg or Sally, but if John liked them they probably weren't so bad. It would be better than sitting in the common room listening to Severus, anyway. "Alright then. Thank you."

John replied with a brilliant smile, blue eyes bright.

The two packed up their books then, extinguishing the fire and walking out of the room. Sherlock didn't realize how late it was; they would definitely be getting detention if they were caught. They said their goodbyes outside of the great hall and separated, John up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, Sherlock down them to the dungeons. Thanks to his ability to prowl silently across the stone floors, he wasn't caught, and entered his common room with a sigh of relief.

The large antechamber was deserted, the fireplace glowing from a nearly-extinguished fire. Sherlock nearly didn't notice the small, thin boy sitting in a black leather armchair in the corner. The boy was looking up at him over the cover of a book, smirking. "I'd be careful if I were you," the boy lilted in a high clear voice, "wouldn't want to get in trouble." Sherlock knit his eyebrows together and nodded, slipping into the room he shared with the other fifth-year boys. Something about that boy bothered him; where had he seen him before?

The curtains around each bed were drawn, light snores coming from around him. Sherlock silently changed and crawled into bed, drawing the curtains around the four posters. Hudson jumped on him, curling on his chest, purring, and he stroked her distractedly, thinking. Something was off. He lifted his head, listening to the bed to his right. Severus was awake; when he slept he made soft whimpering sounds. Instead there was bated breathing in the bed next to him. Why would he still be up? Sherlock's mind began to race, coming up with many possibilities, some more far-fetched than others. He decided to wait until his neighbor was asleep before drifting off himself.

About fifteen minutes later, candlelight could be seen through the break in the curtains, and Sherlock watched Severus climb out of his bed, look around to make sure no one was awake, and stalk out of the room into the common room. Sherlock shot up as soon as he left, scaring the sleeping cat, and followed him silently, bare feet padding on the cold stone floors. He leaned against the doorway, listening into the common room.

"Have you figured it out yet?" it was the boy, the one with the high voice. He sounded impatient.

"Well, not quite. But nearly. I'll have it by next week." Severus stammered over his words. Frightened? But why?

"We don't have until next week. We need to start now. This weekend." The boy shot back. "Do you understand, Snape?"

Silence. "Yes, Moriarty. I'll work on it."

"Good. Now run off before your little bloodhound starts sticking his nose in our business." Sherlock frowned but bound silently back into his bed, pulling Hudson onto his chest and feigning sleep. A moment later his curtain flicked open and Sherlock knew that Severus was there, making sure his secret was hidden. But what was he hiding?

It was extremely difficult to wake up and go to potions that next morning. Severus had already left for the morning by the time he had woken up. Dressing quickly, he rushed straight to class, having slept through breakfast. Sherlock nodded in greeting to Severus, who merely scowled in reply. He was still mad, then.

John strode in and took his place next to Sherlock, muscles rolling under his gray Gryffindor sweater. He took one look at Sherlock and frowned, "You look like hell. You alright?" he asked, genuine concern on his face.

Sherlock waved him off, "Just tired." He said shortly, eyes flicking to Severus's hunched back. John looked between them and nodded, not asking about it again during the whole of the class. When they departed, Sherlock walked alongside Severus in silence. His eyes caught a figure standing in a darkened corridor; the Moriarty boy. Severus paused, looking anxious, and made some sort of excuse about forgetting something, sprinting down the corridor. Sherlock frowned, wanting to follow them but knowing he had to be careful if he was to discover what was going on; Severus knew his ways well, it wouldn't take much to tip him off.

"Out of my way, please!" Sherlock turned to the pompous voice down the hall. Mycroft was striding through like he owned the place, looking down on the other students, his head boy badge gleaming against his Ravenclaw robes. Sherlock groaned but turned around and walked toward his brother, figuring now was as good a time as any to ask. "Sherlock! How have your classes been?" he threw an arm around his brother's neck, grinning because he knew he hated that.

"They're fine, Mycroft. Listen, do you have my Hogsmeade slip? It wasn't in my trunk." He had checked that morning only to find nothing.

"Of course I do. Don't tell me you are actually going to leave the castle of your own free will?" Mycroft looked genuinely surprised.

Sherlock straightened, shaking off Mycroft's arm, "Yes, a friend invited me to go with him."

"A friend? Who? Certainly not that Snape fellow." Mycroft's bemusement was apparent.

"No. John Watson." Sherlock clipped, already wishing he had just forged a permission slip.

"The Gryffindor beater?" Mycroft grinned wickedly, "Well, well, I never imagined an athlete as your type, Sherly. Especially not a Gryffindor."

Sherlock groaned, "Mycroft he is my potions partner and a friend, that's it, and if you insist on being so intolerable I will be forced to retaliate. He looked at his brother meaningfully, and Mycroft huffed, adjusting his tie.

"Fine, I will bring the slip to dinner tonight." And with that he stuck his nose in the air and stalked off.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Saturday dawned brightly, the light shining through the water of the lake and making the Slytherin common room glow a brilliant, eerie green. Sherlock woke early and found himself the only one up, the other boys using their Saturday morning to catch up on sleep. Quidditch tryouts were to begin the next day, and broomsticks and repair tools littered most of the room. Sherlock didn't even own a broom; he had only flown once, during first year when they were required to learn how, and found it to be an uncomfortable and unenjoyable experience. He went to shower and dressed in a white button down, gray vest, and his Slytherin tie, leaving his characteristic scarf behind. He, despite his usual disregard for others opinions, wanted John's friends to like him. He scowled at himself for being such an idiot.

He grabbed his rucksack, stuffed his little pouch of money, his robe, and a box of cigarettes in it, and stalked out of the room, not bothering to let Severus know where he was going. Last thing he needed was more agitation.

The great hall was mostly empty aside from a few professors and the prefects, who always woke early. Mycroft beamed at him from the Ravenclaw table when he entered, giving him a wink, which made Sherlock roll his eyes in annoyance. Must everyone be so intolerable? Sherlock sat with his back to his brother, pouring himself some tea and eating the smallest amount of bread, pulling out his leather-bound book and tapping a quill against his lips.

"Moriarty…?" he wrote very carefully on the top of a fresh page, frowning. It was disconcerting only knowing a name, not having been given the chance to study the boy. He stared at the name, frowning deeply, for quite some time, because a slap on his back made him jump and flip the notebook shut in panic.

"Good morning!" It was John. He sat next to Sherlock and grabbed an apple from the table, "You're up early."

"So are you." Sherlock replied, slipping his book into his rucksack.

"I'm such a light sleeper, as soon as the sun comes up I can't stay asleep." John shrugged, taking a large bite of his apple. "Speaking of which, we need to start wearing a watch to our study sessions. Mcgonagall has nearly caught me twice." He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Sherlock nodded, "That would probably be best."

"Say, your brother is the Ravenclaw head boy, right?" John asked after a moment, leaning against the table.

Sherlock's stomach dropped. What had Mycroft done now to humiliate him? "Look, whatever he said to you –"

John laughed, waving him off, "No he just introduced himself to me yesterday, saying he was glad his brother had made a decent friend for once."

Sherlock groaned, burying his head in his hands, "I'm going to kill him."

"Oh don't worry about it, brothers are supposed to be prats." He grinned, patting Sherlock on the back. The casual contact was bizarre to Sherlock, but he didn't mind it. He looked up to John, brushing the brown curls out of his eyes, and sighed, nodding.

"Hey! Watson!" A deep voice echoed across the hall and the two looked up to see John's friends, Greg and Sally, stride into the Great Hall. John gave them a little wave and they came over, grinning. People were beginning to stare: there were now three Gryffindors at the Slytherin table, and they were sitting with _Sherlock Holmes_ of all people.

"You must be Holmes," the tall boy said, holding out a hand, "Greg Lestrade." Sherlock nodded and shook it. Strong grip: oldest brother, athletic, tendency of laziness. The girl introduced herself as Sally Donovan. Only child. Pure blood. Trust issues.

"Are you eating?" John asked the two. They shook their heads, apparently saving their appetites for the sweet shop. "Good, let's go outside then." He smiled at Sherlock and motioned for him to join them. He stood up and walked silently next to John while the others were laughing about some instance where Sirius Black had fallen from his broomstick the previous day's practice.

"Do you know Regulus?" Greg asked of Sherlock.

Regulus Black, Sirius's brother, was a Slytherin seventh-year and their star seeker. "No. I mean, I've seen him, but we don't talk. My brother knows him, though." Mycroft made a habit of knowing every single one of his seventh-year peers, in order to assess the competition he will have after finishing school and getting a job at the ministry. Sherlock found it pathetic.

The little group sat in a sunny spot of grass by the lake, and Sherlock pulled out a cigarette. "Do you mind?" he asked, frowning. He was already stressed about this outing and the back of his mind was still focused on Severus and Moriarty; he needed to focus. The others shook their heads and Sherlock lit the cigarette with the tip of his wand, taking a long drag and sighing a breath of smoke.

"So…Sherlock. What do you do for fun?" Sally asked, leaning back on her hands and looking to him.

He paused a moment, thinking of an answer. He couldn't very well say he solved mysteries in his spare time. "I…read. And play the violin."

"No Quidditch then?" Lestrade asked, looking bewildered. His eyes slid between John and Sherlock questioningly, and Sherlock's stomach gave a little jolt of embarrassment. He was wondering how they were friends.

"No. I'm a horrible flyer." Sherlock admitted, placing the cigarette between his teeth with a shrug.

"Well you and John have that in common!" Lestrade said with a laugh, shoving John playfully.

"I make up for it in aim." John clipped back, punching Greg hard on his upper arm. The older boy winced and rubbed the spot, grinning.

"John would be an excellent chaser if he wasn't so found of _hitting_ things." Sally interjected, seeing that Sherlock wasn't getting the joke.

"And by things she means Lucius Malfoy." Greg added. They all laughed hard at that one. Sherlock remained quiet, still not really understanding the humor.

"You were there, weren't you? Last year at the first Slytherin Gryffindor match?" John asked, tilting his head to Sherlock. He shook his head, flicking the cigarette into the lake. "What? I don't know anyone who doesn't go to the Quidditch games!" John was looking at Sherlock with a mix of amusement and surprise.

"I've never been too fond of sports…" Sherlock said slowly, not wanting to insult the rest of them. He hated sports. He found them stupid. "I usually that that time to study in peace." He added.

"Well, you have to come to our first match." John said with a grin. "We're playing Greg's girlfriend."

"She is not my girlfriend…" Greg grumbled, turning red.

"Who?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Molly Hooper. Hufflepuff." Sally said, smirking at Greg. Sherlock nodded, not recognizing the name.

"But you'll come?" John asked, looking excited.

"I don't really understand the rules…" Sherlock said, feeling flustered.

"Slytherin is playing Ravenclaw in two weeks," Greg said, "You should take him, John. Teach him our ways." He winked at John, who flushed slightly.

"Well, we'll talk about it." John said softly, looking down at the grass. Sherlock examined him carefully; what was he embarrassed about?

There was a commotion up by the front of the castle, students who were going to Hogsmeade exiting and starting up the path to the village. They stood and joined the masses, the din of students making it hard to carry conversation.

They decided to go straight to the Three Broomsticks, giving the more popular shops a chance to clear out before they went to them. They chose a little circular table near the back and the barmaid came and took their orders. John ordered four butterbeers and they each fished the money out of their pockets in silence. It wasn't a secret that John didn't have much money.

"So, John. What'd you do with your summer?" Sally asked, leaning forward on her elbows toward John. Sherlock eyed her carefully, frowning. Eyes dilated, subconscious lip lick, palms open and pointed toward him. She fancied him. It was so obvious.

"Oh! I got a job working at St. Mungo's." John seemed pleased with himself, "Just front desk work but one of the doctors took a liking to me, said he'd start training me next summer if I wanted."

"That's brilliant!" she said, her voice high but velvet. Sherlock was a little disgusted with the complete disregard for her audience. "Future Doctor John Watson." John smiled kindly at the titled but cleared his throat when their drinks arrived, taking a large gulp of his.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their drinks, when a mousy-looking Hufflepuff girl walked in. When she spotted Greg she smiled and waved, and he grinned back, beckoning her over. She stood on his right, greeting everyone. This, Sherlock instantly realized, was Molly. And she was snogging Greg, there was no secret about it. He must not be interested in a relationship, because she was certainly eager enough. Sherlock found himself watching the two of them, hands pressed together in front of his face, before he saw John give him a look out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock feigned a cough and looked away, realizing he had been staring.

"We're going to go to Zonko's, then. Coming?" Sally and Greg stood, but John shook his head, promising to catch up with them later. As soon as they were gone he leaned forward toward Sherlock.

"You were doing it again. Reading them." John asked excitedly. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed to be caught. "Well? What do you think?"

Sherlock looked at him unfathomably, "You really find this amusing don't you?"

"Amusing? I find it amazing. I wish I could do it." John leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"No you don't." Sherlock said quietly.

"Why not?" John pressed, and Sherlock could see that he was not going to let it go.

"Because you always know exactly how much someone cannot stand you. You can always tell when they are being nice on the outside but don't genuinely mean it. You can never be lied to." Sherlock pressed his hands to his lips, looking to John.

"Sounds like heaven, never being lied to." John said after a long pause. "But you didn't answer about those lot." He jammed his thumb toward the door, implying he meant Greg and Sally.

"Greg is definitely in a relationship with that Hooper girl. Even if it isn't very serious. And Sally hates me." He shrugged, taking a small sip of his drink.

"Oh come off it, no she doesn't." John laughed, waving him off. But Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and John thought about it, his smile slowly melting into a frown. "Why?"

"She's jealous, I think. She fancies you." He spoke softly and plainly, finding it odd to explain his findings to someone other than his cat.

"You're kidding?" John was actually gaping, rubbing his jaw with a slight smirk. He was pleased. He looked to Sherlock, who shrugged, finishing his drink. "Let's go then?" John stood and grabbed his rucksack, Sherlock following him out onto the street.

They found the others inside the joke shop, laughing at a golden snitch that looked very realistic until you tried to catch it and it electrocuted you. Greg put a finger to his lips when they came in and yelled to the back of the store where James and his posse were browsing. "Oi! Potter!" he tossed the snitch in his direction, it's little golden wings making it whiz toward them. James grinned, thinking it to be a real snitch, and grabbed it. His hair stood up instantly and he yelled, dropping the little ball. He swore violently at them, and even Sherlock had to laugh. He couldn't help to feel that Severus would have really enjoyed that one.

They were looking around the store when a figure caught Sherlock's eye in the display window. Mycroft. He was about to turn in the opposite direction when he saw his brother motioning for him to come outside. He sighed, telling John he'd be back in a moment, and followed his brother out onto the street and into a little alley on the side of the building. "How's it going, little brother? Has he proposed yet?" Mycroft's gray eyes, so similar to Sherlock's, gleamed.

Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at him, "Is that seriously all you brought me out here to tell you?" he clipped, annoyed.

"Of course not. A little first year girl came and asked me to give this to you, seems she has a wee bit of a crush." He winked at Sherlock, presenting him with a small envelope, and strode off to join his fellow Ravenclaw friends. Sherlock frowned and looked at the envelope, which was adorned with his name. In a man's writing. Tearing open the seal, he pulled the little card. It carried a few brief words, but Sherlock's eyes widened.

"SH will SHut up or his little friend will be SHut down. –xo"

BOOM.

Sherlock's head whipped up at the earth-shaking blast from the joke shop. He sprinted to the front of the building, where students and smoke were pouring from its doors. The display window had broken in the blast, and it was easy to see the brilliant emerald flames coming from inside the building. The smoke was a wicked shade of purple. Sherlock stood in shock before quickly scanning the crowd. He found Greg, Sally, and Molly almost instantly, gagging from the toxic smoke, a few yards away. He sprinted to them, "John! Where is John?" They looked at each other in shock, realizing they didn't know where their friend was. Scanning the crowd once more it became evident John wasn't there: he was still inside.

Without a second thought Sherlock pulled his wand from his pocket, threw his rucksack at the others, and sprinted inside the burning building. "AGUAMENTE!" he yelled, pointing his wand at the flames, but it did nothing to stop them. "John! JOHN WHERE ARE YOU?" He gagged on the smoke, pulling his sleeve over his nose and running toward the back of the store, where the flames were higher and the smoke thicker.

John was sprawled on the floor, his leg crushed under a burning display case. He was trying desperately to magic it away, but nothing was working, all the while the smell of burning flesh became stronger. "John!" Sherlock yelled, going to him.

"Sherlock, my leg, it's broken! Nothing is working!" He clutched to Sherlock's sleeve desperately, but Sherlock flicked him off, handing John his wand. He took one more breath through his sleeve and grabbed the burning case with his bare hands, ignoring the searing pain as he lifted it enough for John to scoot away.

"Can you stand?" Sherlock yelled at John, who was clutching his blackened and broken leg. He shook his head, "I'm going to lift you, alright?" Sherlock, gently and quickly as he could, put his arms under John and carried him through the burning building to the door, nearly collapsing when the fresh, clean air hit his lungs. He placed John on the ground a safe distance away, while others stared and cheered. Greg and the others ran up, kneeling next to John, asking him if he was alright.

"No..no my leg…it's…I can't…" John's eyes rolled back and his head fell into Sherlock's lap, completely still.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sherlock didn't attend any of his classes that week. He sat in the hospital wing most of his days, staring at John's unconscious body. Madame Pomfrey was a stern young nurse, but she felt pity for Sherlock. He had sacrificed his own health and safety to save John, and for that she allowed him to stay.

For the first two nights it was a necessity. He and John were the ones who suffered the most from the noxious smoke, though other students from the building were experiencing minor respiratory problems as well. Most of those who had been there were given a potion to clear the poison from their lungs and a balm to heal the burns, though the scars left behind wouldn't erase no matter what they tried. Sherlock's hands and arms were covered in red, angry marks, but it was nothing compared to John's leg, which had nearly been burned off. Madame Pomfrey was able to heal the bone and repair most of the skin, but the scarring was permanent, as was probably nerve damage. They wouldn't know until he woke up.

In a way Sherlock was glad John had been passed out. Just healing his own hands had been excruciatingly painful; he couldn't imagine being awake during the experience of repairing an entire leg, especially with burns much worse than his own. But now he needed to wake up, and it became increasingly less likely that he would. Sherlock had never been sicker with worry in his life; especially since the note he had received made him believe that he was the cause of this attack, the reason his kind friend had nearly died. He would never forgive himself for that.

On the second night Mycroft came into the hospital wing, looking genuinely concerned about his little brother. He sat on a stool between Sherlock and John's bed, dropping some sweets on John's table and Sherlock's violin on his. Sherlock looked at his brother gratefully. They didn't get along, but Mycroft understood his inability to sit still, and went out of his way to get this for him.

"They're all talking about it, you know. How you ran in to save him. Calling you a hero." Mycroft's voice was hushed, but there was pride in his voice. "He probably would have died had you not gone after him."

"He might still die…" Sherlock whispered back, barely able to speak the words. He felt his throat constrict with emotion, but Mycroft shook his head, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. Sherlock took three deep breaths before continuing, "Do they know what happened? Who did it?" He asked.

Mycroft shook his head, "No. No one can understand it. It was some sort of a charm, they think, or possibly an explosive potion. But any trace of it is gone, which makes it impossible to find the person who did it. Whole of Hogsmeade is shut down, professionals everywhere. They may even question you two, when he wakes up." Mycroft frowned. He hated mysteries with the same passion that Sherlock adored them. This, however, was a little too personal. Too close to him. He was obsessed with finding out who did it. He just needed John to wake up first.

As they were the only ones spending nights in the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey let Sherlock play his instrument after hours, since the only one who could be disturbed was John, who frankly could use some disturbance, if that would wake him up. Sherlock's days were spent with writing every single detail about the incident in his book, his nights spent sleeplessly playing music. John's friends visited nearly every day, the entire quidditch team. They were all much kinder to Sherlock after what happened, even Potter and Black. They each shook his damaged hand and thanked him for the life of their friend. Sherlock could only nod.

It was exactly a week later, late into Saturday night, when John first began to stir. Sherlock didn't notice it at first, too busy playing the now finished song he had written on the train. "Sh-Sherlock?" the voice was so small, so gravelly and broken. Sherlock nearly dropped his violin with shock.

He ran to his bedside, "I'm here, John. Oh, god. I thought you were going to die on me…" Sherlock had a hand over his mouth, unable to express his relief.

"You saved me…" John murmured, staring weakly into Sherlock's gray eyes. Sherlock nodded, smiling like an idiot. John smiled back, but it was clearly an effort. He was wheezing. "Thanks…" he whispered, placing his hand over Sherlock's.

"Madame Pomfrey!" Sherlock yelled, clutching tightly to John's hand. The nurse ran in, pulling on her robe, curlers in her hair. She shooed Sherlock away, fussing over John, getting him to swallow some pleasant looking pink potion and a lot of water. John seemed to be coming back to life in front of them within moments. She helped him sit up, and the slight movement made him wince in pain.

"It's my leg…" he said, frowning. John pulled aside the blanket to assess his leg and wretched at the state of it. It was a bit gruesome, Sherlock had to admit. The skin was puckered in places and violently red, the marks similar to a tiger's stripes along the pale skin.

"There was some irreversible damage, dear…" Madame Pomfrey said sadly, "I couldn't do anything about the scars. I tried on your friend too." She motioned to Sherlock. "And the nerve damage…I don't know what to make of it. This is very dark magic, I'm afraid…You're lucky to have a leg at all, to be honest." She sighed, turning to Sherlock, "No more of that music, he needs his rest." With that, she turned and stalked back into her chambers.

Sherlock slowly went back to John's side, and he grabbed Sherlock's wrist, examining his hand. "Oh God, Sherlock…I'm so sorry." He frowned, tracing the patterns of the burns with his fingertips. "Does it hurt?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No. And don't apologize, it isn't your fault." He sighed, sitting down, thrilling in John's light touch. The shift in their relationship was palpable. Sherlock knew he would never allow John to be in danger again, especially because of him. "Listen…I don't want to overexert you, but people will be coming soon to ask you what happened…" He picked up his book from the bedside table and his muggle pen that didn't require a well of ink. "Please, John. I need you to tell me everything you remember."

John eyed his book, the pages nearly black with the amount of scribbles on them. "I…it's foggy…You left, and I was back by the back of the shop by myself, and there was some sort of commotion in the back room of the shop and then…" he shook his head slowly, trying to remember.

Sherlock wrote down everything quickly, and looked up to him, "There isn't anything else? Smells, or sounds?"

John jutted out his jaw, eyebrows knitting together as he struggled to remember. "In the back, I heard a crash, like something fell, and then someone said 'do it now' and then everything blew up. I blacked out for a moment. The blast was so close to me. When I came to there was a burning shelf on me, but everything the fire touched couldn't be moved by magic…I thought I was going to die. And then you were there…" he looked up to Sherlock, his blue eyes wide and welling with the memory. Sherlock set down his pen and sat gingerly on the side of the bed, squeezing John's hand when he clasped it. He was shaking. "Who did this, Sherlock? Why did they do this?"

"I don't know, John, but we're going to find out."

John was released from the hospital wing the next morning, but Sherlock stayed with him until he physically left. He was given a cane to walk with, limping horribly. Each step sent a jolt of pain through him, but John was tough, and he didn't complain. Sherlock knew the steps up to Gryffindor tower were going to be murderous.

Dinner was about to start by the time they got downstairs. They walked together slowly into the Great Hall, not saying much. As soon as they stepped through the huge doorway there was a hush in the room, followed by tumultuous applause. People came around to clap Sherlock on the back, making him stiffen awkwardly. John laughed at him and went to sit at Gryffindor table, and Sherlock crossed the room the Slytherin, taking his customary seat across from Severus.

"Good to see you're alive." Snape said cooly.

"You'd know if you came round to visit." Sherlock snapped back, grabbing a roll of bread as it appeared on the table.

Severus opened his mouth to reply and then closed it again, scowling. "I didn't want to interrupt." He said finally. Sherlock ignored him, tapping his fingertips against the little book in his pocket. He glanced at Severus covertly: his agitation made it clear that he was hiding something, but whether or not it was related to the blast Sherlock had yet to find out. But he would. Soon. His gray eyes scanned the Slytherin table, and down near the opposite side of him was the Moriarty boy, smirking at him with a glint in his eye.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, turning his attention back to his food, pulling it apart with his long fingers. Something was definitely up. And he was determined to find out what it was.

That night Sherlock crawled gratefully into his bed, only to be playfully attacked by Hudson, who was clearly so happy to have him back after a week away. She purred, rubbing her face against his neck and chin as he sat halfway up in bed, smiling and stroking her. He stayed awake late into the night, listening as each of the other boys fell into a deep sleep. When he knew they were, he grabbed his wand. "Lumos." He whispered. The tip lit up, waking up the cat, who hissed at him. Sherlock patted her head and crawled out of his bed, crossing to Severus's bedside table. It was stacked with his textbooks, nothing out of the ordinary. Sherlock frowned, staring at the books. Advanced Potion Making was at the top, but they didn't have Potions on Fridays and Severus had no reason to study potions, the subject that came naturally to him. He picked up the book and flipped open its first few pages. The margins were littered with comments and corrections to the potions on the pages, but also carried new potions, ones Severus had created. There were also spells with vague comments on their uses. Mostly harmless things; Severus had always been a brilliant wizard, he just lacked charisma. Sherlock set the book down and extinguished his light, deciding to sleep.

That week passed as though nothing had changed, except for the fact that John and Sherlock now studied in the library, swapping between studying for their classes and researching spells and potions that could have caused the blast. Sherlock felt bad for John, because he knew how he got when he was in his element of research and discovery. John was patient, but his sarcastic humor was beginning to shine through.

They were going over the differences between a warming potion and one that would allow you to breathe fire when Sherlock's eyes were suddenly distant, thinking of something far away. His lips mumbled an idea as his hands scribbled the thought in his little book. John sighed. This was happening a lot lately. He whistled sharply, trying to get Sherlock's attention. "Sher...oi! Sherlock!" John whispered sharply, trying to not get yelled at for speaking loudly in the library. Sherlock continued to ignore him so John sighed, taking his cane, and smacking Sherlock across the shoulder with it.

"_Shit_!" Sherlock cried, attracting quite a few stares from the people around them. "What was that for?" He hissed back at John.

"I realize you are obsessed with this, but failing potions is just going to reflect on me, and I have a reputation to keep, okay?" John scowled, a smirk fighting the corners of his mouth. His eyes glanced down at the book and he was able to snatch it before Sherlock could react and take it away. He placed the base of his cane squarely in the center of Sherlock's chest, deflecting him from retrieving it, while he flipped through the pages with his free hand. "What is this? Your diary? You always have it on you."

Sherlock was flushed red, "It is not a _diary_, it's a journal of notes!" Sherlock snapped, reaching for it and failing once more.

"What's this here? Moriarty. Who is that?" He whispered to Sherlock, turning to look at him.

"Nothing. Just another Slytherin who was talking to Snape. He seemed suspicious." Sherlock held out a long fingered, scarred hand and John placed the book in it.

"You think he could have something to do with this?" John said with a frown.

"Everyone is a suspect at this point." Sherlock tucked his journal into his pocket and sighed, not meeting John's eyes.

There was a pause. "Including you…" he said, his voice extremely soft. Sherlock looked up at him through dark lashes, sad. "I don't believe it, you know that. But people are beginning to talk. You were gone just long enough for the explosion to take place."

"Why would I put you in danger, John? Why would I want to kill you?" Sherlock found himself getting flustered at the ridiculous accusation. "Plus, I was with Mycroft. He could tell you that himself."

John raised his hands as if to deflect the defensiveness away from him. "I told you I don't believe it, didn't I?" His voice was gentle and patient. "What were you talking to Mycroft about, anyway?" he asked, nonchalant.

Sherlock swallowed. He couldn't tell John about the note without explaining his history as SH, and at this point that little fact seemed to be an important secret to keep. He was going to tell him, but not yet. "He was just being a prat, asking about us." He waved a hand in front of him, rolling his eyes, and John grinned.

He slammed his textbook shut, "Oh yeah, about that. The game is this weekend, if you still wanted to come. I'll even support Slytherin if you want." He stuck his tongue out at Sherlock, his tone light and playful.

Sherlock had completely forgotten about the quidditch match. "Oh. I suppose, if you'd like to go."

John's returning smile was breathtaking.

John was less pleasant as the week carried on, already frustrated with his leg and his inability to carry out simple tasks, like carrying things with two hands. Sherlock felt horrible for him, and he joined John every morning out on the quidditch pitch, sitting on the ground against the goalpost with his cane while John whizzed above him on his broom. This seemed to relieve some tension, flying, but it wasn't much. By the time they met up in Ruins, he was bitter and testy, and John's complete inaptitude in the subject didn't help in the slightest.

They were halfway through the lesson when an idea occurred to Sherlock, and he whipped out his little leather book. John scowled and him and snatched it, "Oh for heaven's sake, Sherlock." He hissed. Their professor carried on talking, not noticing them. "Focus!" John took the book and shoved it in his own pocket, glaring at Sherlock before feverishly catching up on his notes. Sherlock couldn't help but look at him in amusement.

There was a buzz of excitement throughout the castle the next morning as students ate their breakfasts feverishly, discussing the Quidditch match. Ravenclaw, it seemed, was expected to win, but for Sherlock's sanity he severely hoped not. Mycroft seemed to think that the success of his house's quidditch team was some in some sort of direct correlation to his own personal success over Sherlock. It was so annoying.

When he saw John stand up across the hall and don his cane, Sherlock instantly mirrored the movement, leaving his half-drunk cup of tea forgotten at the table. He hurried to his friend's side, knotting his scarf around him as they made their way out of the castle. Some other dedicated fans were already on their way to the Quidditch pitch, but for the most part they were quite early, allowing themselves extra time so John could climb the steps into the stands. While they walked, John babbled about the basic rules of the game, explaining each individual role. Sherlock listened without interrupting but decided there were far too many rules and too much importance placed on the Seeker. No wonder James Potter had such an abnormally big head.

They found their seats just as the others were clearing out of the castle, the mass of black, green, and blue looking like a wave from the sea. They sat in the front, on the Slytherin side, and Sherlock couldn't help but respect John for likely being the only Gryffindor not betting on Ravenclaw. John's eyes were alight, though, excited about the sport, the fresh, cool autumn air, the feeling of being high above the ground. Sherlock, though finding himself enjoying much of the tactic and excitement of the sport, also did a fair amount of watching John, the way he pointed excitedly as he caught sight of the snitch, the cheers as a goal was made. He wasn't in pain, not when he was this excited, and Sherlock felt something warm in his stomach purr when he saw John grinning.


	6. Chapter 6

**HEY GUYS. If you are reading this on I thought I'd come around and say hello, since you guys haven't gotten any sort of introduction from me yet. I've been writing about 1-2 chapters a day but that may change in the next week or so, just as a warning. I adore comments and criticisms so please review if you get the chance. **

**Xo- K**

Chapter 6

It was late November when Sherlock was sitting in the padded window seat of one of the tower common rooms. The fire crackled cheerfully, rain falling against the glass of the window. He looked across the grounds, the lake seeming to be alive with ripples in the wind. The Quidditch pitch looked menacing in the distance. Hudson, who Sherlock now brought with him when they were studying in these private rooms, perked up from her seat in his lap and bounded to the door, sitting patiently. Soon John's limping footsteps were heard, and he stormed inside, looking angry.

"Hello…" Sherlock said slowly, reading the anger on his body. John glared at him, the look so out of character on his kind face, and limped over. Sherlock saw the stack of newspapers in his fist.

"June 2nd of last year: a mysterious benefactor by the name of 'SH' sends the ministry information about a case that none of the professionals noticed. Caught a murderer." He slammed the paper into Sherlock's lap.

"June 30th, discovers poisoning was an accident. July 22nd, SH realizes that a missing wizard had been transfigured. August 10th, SH is able to deduce that a missing witch was in Albania. August 14th, proves a suicide. September 1st, proves a murder. SH." He tosses the papers to the ground, looking livid. "Now who do I know by the initials SH who can figure out people's secrets with just one look? Who do I know by the name of SH who is brilliant and psychotic enough to obsess over cases like this? Care to start explaining?" his blue eyes were narrowed, but Sherlock could tell John was hurt.

"I'm not _psychotic_." Sherlock said, crossing his arms.

John threw up his hands and sat huffily in a chair, not looking at Sherlock. "I thought we were friends."

"We are…" Sherlock frowned.

"No. We're not. Because if you actually trusted me, if I was actually your friend, you wouldn't have kept this from me, Sherlock." John's words stung, but Sherlock remained quiet. "Why didn't you tell me?" he said finally.

"I was going to…but that day, at Hogsmeade…" Sherlock sighed, ruffling his chocolate brown curls. "Listen, John. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid it would end in another attack against you."

"An…attack?" John looked bewildered, "Against _me_?"

Sherlock sighed and pulled out his notebook, taking the note out and handing it to John, "Mycroft gave this to me outside, when I left the shop. Said a first-year asked him to give it to me."

John read the note, frown seeming permanently glued on his kind face. Sherlock couldn't stand it. "And you think whoever wrote this was referring to me? That they blew up the shop?" he looked sick at the thought. "If you thought this was about me you should have told me, Sherlock!"

"Oh yes, John, that seems like a perfectly intelligent thing to do: tell the boy whose life I just saved 'oh yeah by the way ha ha you also got blown up cause of me!'" Sherlock stalked across the room, staring into the fire. He had never gotten so angry at John before.

"Well it's a hell of a lot better than me finding out this way!" John yelled back. He got to his feet and limped to Sherlock, ramming the tip of his cane right over his heart. "I trust you, Sherlock. But I can't keep that trust if you are going to keep things from me."

Sherlock put his hands up defensively, "I know. I'm sorry." John threw him one more dirty look and resumed his seat in the armchair. Hudson leaped in his lap, giving Sherlock a look that made it clear she was on John's side. Sherlock sighed and leaned against the mantle.

"So do you think the person who sent this is related in some way to Snape?" John asked after a moment, his tone much softer.

Sherlock thought about it for a moment. The idea had occurred to him, certainly, but he didn't imagine it to be possible. To believe it would be to accept the fact that Severus, the boy with whom he had been friends for close to a decade, would attack John. Out of what? Jealousy? A hate crime against the Gryffindor team, who had also been in the store? Even Severus wasn't so low. He had the nagging suspicion they were related though. "I don't really know, to be honest." Sherlock said. He hated admitting that.

John sighed, "Well, no use getting caught up on it then. We have mid-terms to study for." Sherlock nodded and sat in the armchair opposite John, and they didn't mention the note or SH again for the rest of the night.

The next week breathed some amount of relief for the entire school. Exams were over, and they had a few days of peace before everyone was to go home for the holidays. Even the weather was cooperating nicely, the sun shining brightly despite the chill in the air. As a celebration for their hard work, John and Sherlock had decided to sit outside by the lake, sprawled across a blanket. John had his beater's bat and a practice bludger that would fly back to him like a boomerang every time he hit it. He was tapping it a few inches away, back and forth, tongue sticking out in concentration, while Sherlock lay on his stomach and wrote out brief notes of music for a song he was working on. A few yards away, Potter's gang also sat; James was leaning against a large tree, snatching and releasing a snitch while his friends joked around him. Lilly Evans was also there, in some sort of heated discussion with Remus Lupin. Sherlock wondered vaguely how many people knew he was a werewolf (he of course having known since their first interaction in their first year) or if Lilly knew her boyfriend was an animagus.

Sherlock frowned and turned his attention back to the sheets of music in front of him, his fingers stretching and reaching as though actually making the notes on his instrument, hearing the music in his head. John caught the bludger suddenly, nudging Sherlock with his elbow.

He looked up to see Severus stalking toward them, but James and Sirius were already on their feet, intercepting them. It happened so fast, the exchanging of insults, and suddenly Snape was hanging as though from an invisible rope around his ankle. John and Sherlock ran over in time to see Severus pull out his wand, pointing it directly at James.

"Sectum—"

"EXPELLIARMUS!" John and Sherlock both yelled: John's wand pointed to James, Sherlock's to Severus. Both wands flew out of their hands and Snape fell in a heap on the ground.

James turned with a sneer to them, but Lilly shoved him aside, running to Severus. They could all barely make out the insult he said to her then, see her put her hand over her mouth in shock and back away from him. James lunged to him, about to punch him, but Remus held him back, and Severus glared at Sherlock before running back up into the castle.

John ignored James and kneeled with some effort next to Lilly, speaking kind words to her until she stopped crying. He smiled at her and murmured something and she laughed weakly, nodding. Sherlock had to admire him; it was easy to see how he wanted to be a doctor. He was so gentle and good, cheering up this girl he hardly knew while a bunch of other boys stood around like idiots. A couple of moments later they both stood, and James held out his arms to Lilly. She embraced him with a sniffle, still angry at him but clearly forgiving due to the aftermath. John gave him a warning look and he and Sherlock went back to their spot, John staying standing this time, smacking the bludger as far as he possibly could across the lake. Sherlock looked at him, jaw set, fury evident on his face.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked after a moment of watching John nearly take himself out with the force of the swings. He sighed and caught the ball, not even flinching as it smacked into his hand.

"You know when we were talking about your talent? And you said that my sister was a squib? Well, she as a squib gets tormented in the same way that muggle-borns do. When we were in primary school, we lived in a wizard community, so of course all the kids were magic too. She was one of the only ones. She'd come home crying." John huffed and turned his eyes to Sherlock, "I _hate_ people who bully. And I hate people who call names like that Snape called Lilly. She did nothing to him but try to help. I know he's your friend, Sherlock, but that was just –"

He stopped as Sherlock held up a hand, "He isn't my friend. Hasn't been in months, really. But definitely not now." Sherlock bit his lip, not liking to see John so upset but also feeling a large amount of respect for him and his beliefs.

John sighed and sat down, tapping his cane against his shoe distractedly. "Sorry, for venting like that. Stupidity annoys me."

Sherlock laughed at that and lay down, the cold winter breeze pulling his curls gently. "I know exactly what you mean."

Sherlock was extremely grateful the for winter holiday for the first time in years. As he packed his things into his trunk and stuffed Hudson into his rucksack, he could feel the waves of hatred from the bed beside him, Severus's black eyes glaring into Sherlock's back as he took Hudson and gently placed her in his rucksack, zipping it nearly all the way so her small head could still poke up. He smiled and scratched under her chin and she purred, ducking into the bag to sleep. He put the bag over his shoulder, checked once to make sure he had everything he needed, and trudged up with the majority of the students toward the great hall.

"Sherlock!" he heard from behind him and he stopped. John's head was poking out of an empty classroom. He motioned for him to come and Sherlock slipped into the room. "Hey! I almost missed you. I wanted to give you your Christmas gift!" John held a square parcel in his hands, wrapped in back paper with a red ribbon. Sherlock was oddly touched, taking the box from John. He set down his bag, Hudson scrambling with the movement, and grabbed his gift for John, also wrapped with a red ribbon.

"You first." Sherlock said, shifting awkwardly. John leaned his cane against a desk and sat on the tabletop, tearing open the box. Inside was a little red leather-bound notebook, its cover etched with gold-leaf runes. "So you won't forget anything, you know." Sherlock locked his hands behind his back, hoping John could at least pretend he liked it.

His face was lit up though, grinning hugely, "That's brilliant! Who'd have known Sherlock Holmes was so sentimental." He poked his tongue out at Sherlock, who flushed. "Okay, your turn. It's not much, you know, but I figured that since you're such a smart bloke you would enjoy it."

Inside was a wizard chess set, the heavy marble figures laying still in their box. "I've never had one before…" Sherlock said, smiling at John. "Thank you." Sherlock had never been given such a gift; the most personal thing he had ever been given was a scarf from Mycroft. His mother always gave him books and his father…well, he wasn't home enough to say hello to his children, let alone buy them things.

They walked to the train, managing to find an empty compartment despite the fact that they were among the last to leave the castle. Night was beginning to fall as they made their way through the mountains, snow making everything outside seem unnaturally bright despite the darkness. The windows were beginning to fog and Sherlock heard John make a choking sound. He looked up at him, concerned, and saw him staring at the window with a mix of shock and confusion.

Words were written in the frost on the window as if drawn there recently. The script was the same as the letter's, and like the letter, it was brief:

"Stop looking for me or you can expect something much worse than a bomb. –xo"


	7. Chapter 7

**HELLO YOU SEXUAL FIENDS. You should all know that your reviews make me happy to be alive, you guys are so nice to me. For those who are concerned that this story will become a slash, fear not. I am, for the moment, staying true to the characters and keeping them sexually frustrated but otherwise bromantic. Although, you know, don't mind my subtext. I sort of live and breathe this story, and I'm very excited to be writing it. Continue to leave your questions/comments/concerns/ideas in a review here or on my tumblr. Your feedback is, as always, my crack. **

**END SAPPYRANT. **

**Enjoy**

Chapter 7

The first three days of the winter holiday was spent in a never-ending loop of pacing, cigarettes, and tea. Sherlock rarely left his darkened room, muttering to himself in anger and more than a little angst. Whoever had sent the note was smart, they knew there was little Sherlock could do by way of research without the castle's resources to support him. Mycroft knocked on his door twice a day, begging his brother to come outside, and each time Sherlock ignored him. His parents did similarly.

The Holmes house had never celebrated Christmas in a traditional way. There were no decorations throughout the large, cold country home. The only indication of the holiday was the snow in the yard. Sherlock, whose large bedroom dominated half of the third floor, did not have any interest in celebrating. His exchanging of gifts with John was about as festive as he was going to get. He preferred to spend his time thinking, and after the second day even Hudson couldn't stand to be in the same room as him.

Sherlock was beyond frustrated: all he knew of his stalker was that it was a male, judging by his handwriting, and that he had access to Sherlock and the Hogwarts grounds. Obviously a student or a faculty member. Sherlock was sure that the boy Moriarty had something to do with this, but what? Was he the mastermind, or a catalyst? And what did he want with Snape? Sherlock threw himself on the bed and groaned, his mind racing.

_Tap tap_.

Sherlock's head lifted to the window in surprise, and he tentatively pulled the curtain back. A horned owl was hovering there, letter caught in his beak. Sherlock opened the window and let the bird in; it dropped the letter on the bed and swooped out without a break. He frowned and took the letter, instantly recognizing John's handwriting on the address. He ripped open the parchment envelope and pulled out the two notes inside.

_Sherlock,_

_ I knew the name Moriarty was familiar, but I didn't know why. His dad works for the ministry: department of muggle safety. If your discoveries are making him look incompetent, it'd be a pretty damn good reason for his son to target you, don't you think?_

_ Also, I've been thinking about that day at the lake. What spell was Severus about to use on James? I didn't recognize it. _

_ Hope you have a happy Christmas. It is so boring without your psychotic obsessions pounding my ears every five minutes._

_ Your friend,_

_ John._

Sherlock could hear John's sarcasm through the script on the page, and he smirked, taking the second sheet of paper: it was a cutting from the Prophet, saying that head of the Department for Muggle Safety Jonathan Moriarty was under scrutiny for being unable to solve cases within his own department. The photograph was of a haughty looking middle-aged man with cold, unforgiving eyes. He held his head high, a sneer on his pale face.

"Bless you, John Watson." Sherlock muttered and ran about the room like a hurricane, tacking up the article and letter on the wall, rifling through his collection of Prophets for any mention of Moriarty's father. In the end, an entire wall of Sherlock's bedroom was covered in articles, photos and notes, and Sherlock stood with his hands on his hips, fingers tapping against them, scanning the papers with determined gray eyes. He didn't even hear the bedroom door open, he was so enthralled, and when Mycroft's voice was suddenly behind him he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"What the bloody hell is this?" Mycroft's voice was caught between amusement and awe. Sherlock wheeled around, glaring at him, struggling to bring his heart rate down.

"Research." He muttered, glaring at his brother.

"On Jonathan Moriarty?" Mycroft speculated, stepping forward to examine the articles on the wall.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and closed it again, eyebrows knitting together. "You know of him?"

Mycroft looked at him in bemusement, "My dear brother, have you not met me? I plan on taking his job, after all." He wagged a finger at him and turned back around. "What I want to know is why _you_ care about him."

"I don't." Sherlock sniffed, and then sighed. He realized that Mycroft would probably be a valuable asset in this case, but that of course meant that he had to rely on his brother, which Mycroft would never let him hear the end of. Sherlock deflated with a sigh, "You _cannot _tell father about this." Sherlock warned.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "If you are worried he is going to find out his baby boy is the SH causing the ministry so much drama then you're wasting your breath. Father wouldn't believe you even if you told him yourself; he believes what he wants. It's what makes him such a good politician."

Sherlock gaped at his brother, all snide comments he had worked up disappearing in the shock. Mycroft ignored him, reading an article on the wall intently, "How did you know about that?" he finally managed to choke out.

"Oh please, Sherly, I've dealt with your schemes nearly exclusively for sixteen years. Next time I suggest not using your own initials." He winked at Sherlock with a smirk, enjoying the shock on his younger brother's face. "So since I'm sure you are well aware I will find out eventually, why don't you go ahead and tell me what this is about?" he pointed his wand at the door, and it closed with a click.

Sherlock crossed his arms and sat in a leather armchair by the wall, frowning. He hated playing into his brother's hands. "That note, in Hogsmeade. It wasn't a love letter." Mycroft looked genuinely surprised at this, and Sherlock pointed to the note, which hung near his head. His brother read it, a grimace on his face.

"The shop blew up after you read this." He looked to Sherlock, who nodded, "Dear lord, I thought _you_ were psychotic." He muttered.

"Why do people keep _calling _me that?" Sherlock growled to no one in particular.

"Why didn't you go to a professor, or to the headmaster?" Mycroft asked.

"…I mean _sociopathic_, sure, but I am completely able to function."

"Sherlock."

"I am in full control of my mind and reality, therefore I am _not _psychotic."

"SHERLOCK." Mycroft snapped at him and Sherlock looked up at him wearily, "This is an extremely dangerous situation. You should have told someone. You still should."

"It'd give away my identity as SH." Sherlock replied in a clipped voice, "Obviously."

"You'd be famous." Mycroft replied, sounding shocked, "Sherlock, the ministry would hire you on the spot!"

"I have no interest in fame _or_ the ministry." He rolled his eyes. His brother was such a conformist. "And obviously, the ministry has no interest in me." He gestured back to Jonathan Moriarty.

"You think the head of the muggle safety division gives a shit about a fifth-year student? Oh please, Sherlock, not even you are that narcissistic." He snorted, crossing his arms.

"Not him. His son. Jim. He's a sixth-year, and he's been working with Severus on something." Sherlock pressed his palms together, thinking.

"Working with him on what?"

"No idea."

"Well, what did they say?"

"Not much."

"Then how do you know?"

"I just do." Sherlock shrugged and Mycroft groaned, rubbing his temples.

"Let me know when you _actually_ have some information, will you? And for God's sake, come down for dinner, you haven't eaten in days." With that, his brother stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

_ "Jonathan Moriarty is hiding something, trying to cover something up. Those cases were never meant to be solved. I think he's behind them. His son is helping him keep it covered, so obviously he would target John in order to get me to stop. But why not attack me personally? And, if this is the case, why is Severus helping him?"_

Sherlock tapped his pen against his temple, hunched over his notebook. He was still obsessed, still spending most of his days in his room. Mycroft hadn't bothered him and Sherlock had only seen his parents in passing since arriving home. He hardly slept anymore, and John had sent him two letters since the first asking him where the hell he was and why he wasn't replying to his letters. Sherlock had scribbled a quick "_Thinking –SH_" on the back of the second letter to John as an answer, only eliciting more angry letters.

When Mycroft let himself into his room the next night claiming that it was Christmas and he was going to damn well have dinner with the family, Sherlock was a little shocked. Had he really been in this room for a week and a half? He begrudgingly followed his brother down the stairs, where his parents were already sitting at the table around a relatively normal supper. Sherlock sniffed in annoyance at sat next to his mother.

Marissa Holmes was not a particularly loving or sentimental woman. She was practical and quiet, analytical but didn't make a fuss about things. Sherlock had rarely seen her not perfectly polished, even in the early mornings or late into the night had her pale blond hair pulled up and out of her face, her gray eyes catlike and sometimes deadly under rimless glasses. It seemed odd to Sherlock that she would choose a mate who was equally brooding, silent, and deadly. Wolfgang Holmes was one of the most powerful men in the Ministry of Magic. He worked directly under the minister, and it was a known fact that the minister did not make a decision without consulting him first. Mycroft worshiped the ground his father walked on, and had dreamed of someday working with him at the Ministry: Wolfgang and Mycroft Holmes, taking the magical world by storm. Sherlock found it extremely dull, and it was evident that their father preferred Mycroft's charisma and ambition to Sherlock's sarcasm and genius.

"So. Sherlock. Mycroft said that you've made friends with a young John Watson." Wolfgang's voice was like a growl, resonating deep in his chest. His steely blue eyes were on his youngest son, and despite his deep voice Sherlock knew his father was merely curious.

"Yes, so what?" He already wished this dinner would end.

"Henry Watson's son, yes?" He pressed his palms together in a gesture very similar to Sherlock's. His son nodded. "I knew his father, of course. A very powerful Auror, but he was too trusting and one day…well, I'm sure you know the rest."

Sherlock nodded, casting his eyes downward. He had never asked John about it, knowing it was a sensitive subject, but he had found his obituary in an old copy of the Prophet at the library. He had gone to aid another auror who had been hurt and was killed by a dark wizard. A hero's death, they had written. It was clear that Wolfgang didn't believe that to be very heroic at all. Sherlock's hands were fists under the table, willing himself to control his emotions. The last thing he needed was a row with his father.

"And is this Watson boy your friend or your boyfriend?"

"Wolfgang!" Marissa exclaimed at her husband, looking scandalized. Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft, who was stifling a laugh.

"What? It is a perfectly valid question. I mean, if he is your boyfriend, that would be quite fine." He sniffed, taking a bite of his food.

"Yes. Yes there is nothing wrong with that, Sherlock." His mother agreed, glancing at her son.

"I am aware there is nothing wrong with that, thank you." Sherlock rolled his gray eyes again, "But John is just my friend. That's it."

Marissa gave a small nod and the rest of their meal was eaten in uncomfortable silence.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey guys, please don't forget to leave a review/comment! Enjoy!**

**-xo**

Chapter 8

"You _prat_!" John smacked Sherlock in the ribcage with his cane the moment he saw him on the train platform. Sherlock noticed, while being smacked with it, that John was carrying a new cane, shiny mahogany with a golden lion adorning the handle. "Thinking? That was all you could write me was '_thinking'_?"

Sherlock struggled to avoid to blows, flushing as he realized John was making a scene. Mycroft came up behind them on the platform, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "Now, boys, do refrain from participating in your domestics in public, yes?" he winked at Sherlock and strode into the train, and John gave Sherlock one more good wallop before glaring at him and turning to limp after Mycroft onto the Hogwarts Express.

Sherlock followed him in silence, rubbing his sure-to-bruise side, letting John pick a compartment. He shut the door and locked it, drawing the shades down. "Aperio." Sherlock whispered, but no enchantments revealed themselves. He tentatively sat across from John on the edge of his seat, leaning forward. Sherlock then explained his theory to John, that he believed the elder Moriarty is attempting to cover up these crimes and Sherlock's unraveling of them is messing up some sort of plan.

John stared at him for a long time and finally sighed, "That would make sense, Sherlock, but why would he cover up random crimes? You discovered the truth of them, none of them were related. It was just typical crimes…the country is full of them."

Sherlock frowned, hands pressed together, mind racing. He hadn't really thought about that. What was the connection then? There must be something that unites the cases, something that needed to be hidden. He pulled out his notebook, which was now overstuffed with all of his notes from his wall, flipping through the papers at an alarming rate. Murders, suicides, silencing spells; none of these people could ever speak of what happened again. They were always performed by themselves or someone with some sort of connection to them. Easy to make them look like hate crimes or suicides…but what if they weren't? What if…

Sherlock's eyes widened, staring up at John. "The Imperious curse…" he said in a choked voice. One of the Unforgivable Curses; one of the three darkest spells in the wizarding world. John paled, staring into Sherlock's eyes; he knew firsthand what sort of wizards used the Imperious. "What if these crimes were meant to look ordinary, but instead were much more? What if they were organized murders?" He shot up, pacing back and forth in the compartment, managing to stay upright when the train jolted into motion. "A string of murders, meant to look like commonplace accidents or killings…the imperious curse…who? Or even better, why? This isn't about Jonathan Moriarty, this is something much bigger than that…" He was muttering to himself, completely ignoring John, who had a thin layer of cold sweat over his round face, his skin having turned the pallor of Sherlock's. "But what does Moriarty have to do with this, and why is his son involving himself? Honestly, John, you bother me about not involving you and then you just stay quiet and not say anything and…" He looked up at his friend now, who seemed on the verge of hyperventilating. "John!" Sherlock sat next to him, long fingered hands fluttering over his body, unsure of what to do. "What is it? Are you alright? Talk to me!"

John shook his head slowly, pulling his legs up and against his chest, putting his forehead against his knees. "Sorry…I just…I never thought I'd _ever_ be in this situation…" his voice was very, very small. "This…_you_…It's so much like my dad…He was so brave and good and look where it got him…" he chuckled darkly, sniffling. Sherlock was shocked to see he had tears running down his face.

He tentatively put a hand on John's shoulder. "Listen…John, if this is too much, if you don't want to be involved in this, you don't have to be…" Sherlock said slowly, though it hurt to say. He needed John's short-sighted frankness: look how much he had helped him discover!

John looked up at him and wiped his face, his jaw set. "It's a bit late for that, mate. They blew me up, remember?" he sat up straight and took a deep breath, grabbing his new cane. "Mum bought me this. Must've cost her a fortune, but she said it'll last a lifetime…" he twisted the lion's head and lifted it, his wand fit into the handle and slid into the cane, completely hidden. "It's neat, huh?" Sherlock knew he was trying to change the subject, so he nodded, sliding to the floor so he could pet Hudson. They spent the rest of the train ride playing wizard chess or letting Hudson chase a little glittering ball of light about the room and decidedly not talking about Moriarty.

Their classes took off with a vengeance after the winter break, their lessons suddenly much more difficult and fast paced than they had been before. Sherlock saw much less of John due to his intense training schedule for Quidditch, which only added to his stress levels; he thought more clearly when John was around. The winter months passed in a flurry of studying, stressing, missing John and fighting the nagging sensation in the back of his head about Moriarty. He saw the boy now constantly, and he always seemed to be very aware of Sherlock, a wicked smirk on his pale face. It infuriated Sherlock, not knowing what he was up to, but he knew he needed to cool his research for John's sanity and also for his safety: Sherlock didn't forget the threatening message on the train back in December.

It was April when John limped to his and Sherlock's table in potions, slamming down a parchment package. Sherlock looked at him suspiciously, "What is this?" he said, tentatively pulling on the paper to open it.

"Consider it an early birthday present." John said with an evil grin, taking his seat and watching Sherlock open the gift slowly. Inside was a striped gold and scarlet scarf, Gryffindor colors. "Surprise! You're wearing it to my match this weekend. I don't care if you are a Slytherin, you're going to support me at this one. If we win we'll win the house cup!" He looked genuinely excited about it, and Sherlock had to laugh.

"You realize I will probably get beat up and stuffed into a toilet if I wear this, yes?" Sherlock said, carefully folding the scarf and wrapping the paper around it, placing it in his rucksack.

"Nah, you're too tall. No one would dream of it. Plus, if they do, I'll beat them to death with my cane." John smiled cheerfully, "You'll wear it?"

Sigh. "Yes, alright, if it means that much to you." Sherlock rolled his gray eyes at the resulting smile, and turned his attention to their work for the day.

Saturday dawned mercifully dry and breezy, spring finally making its appearance on the Hogwarts grounds. Sherlock dressed in a gray sweater under his Slytherin robe, looping John's scarf around his neck. He ignored the dirty looks he was shot as he walked out of the dungeons and toward the quidditch pitch.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!" He paused as he heard the slightly familiar voice call and turned around to see Molly Hooper running toward him, her mousy hair pulled into a ponytail and a Gryffindor scarf identical to Sherlock's around her neck. "Oh! John gave his to you then? I figured he would." She smiled, "Would you like to watch the game together? I get so confused at these matches, Greg thinks I'm hopeless."

Sherlock considered Molly for a moment. He had only met her once in passing and yet she was being open and friendly to him, inviting him to sit with her. Admittedly, she could get away with supporting Gryffindor for this game based on the fact that her team wasn't playing them, and she was now officially Greg's girlfriend, but still two traitors were better than one. "Alright then. Though you should be warned, I'm probably as clueless as you are." Molly smiled as a response. "What do you mean, he gave his to me?"

"Oh! The team each had a scarf to give to their biggest supporter to wear during the game. Greg gave me his. And yours is from John, right?" Sherlock nodded, oddly touched. John hadn't told him that. He supposed this was John's way of labeling him as his best friend, and that thought made him seem to brim over in happiness.

He and Molly made their way toward the quidditch pitch, choosing seats between the Gryffindor and Slytherin students, where students from the other houses sat, all sporting either something green or red to show support. This was the first time Sherlock had gone to see John play, as John sat out on the first game due to his leg and Sherlock had been too busy with a potions essay to make the second one. He had to admit that John looked impressive, zipping behind his chasers, defending them by bravely nearly taking hits from Slytherin beaters and the ever present bludgers. It was a close game, really, Slytherin's brute strength equally matched by Gryffindor's agility. Sherlock couldn't help but take on the crowd's energy, cheering with Molly as they saw James Potter sprint off quickly after the snitch, Regulus Black close behind. Potter's hand grasped the little ball just moments before being taken out by Black, his long body falling off his broomstick and hurtling toward the ground. John flew as fast as he could under him, catching James' arm just feet above the ground. They were both pulled the short distance into the grass below, John's catch breaking most of Potter's fall, and they were grinning as they rolled off the ground, James holding the snitch high in the air. Gryffindor had won the house cup.

Sherlock followed the crowd out of the quidditch pitch, but veered to the left of the castle entrance, going to their spot on the lake, the place John asked him to meet after the game. He took a seat, back straight against a tree, looking out onto the setting sun, the din of people's laughter and excitement drowning out any chance of deep thought. For this, Sherlock was grateful. It was hard to be alone with his thoughts, and it required a great amount of self-control to keep his ever-running mind off of the subject of Moriarty.

The high voice sounded behind him as if he had been called, as if he could see straight into Sherlock's mind. "Well, well. Waiting for your boyfriend are we?" Jim Moriarty leaned against the tree, his black eyes staring coldly at Sherlock, slight smirk on his face. "How very romantic, the lake at sunset. I'd have thought you were more creative than that."

Sherlock kept his face composed, though inside he was reeling with insults, threats, and the strong urge to punch him in the face. "That's quite kind of you, taking such an interest." His voice was like a razor's edge, gray eyes still toward the lake.

"Oh I like to keep tabs on people. Especially ones who are so clever and _meddlesome._" Jim sing-songed, his voice cold and deadly.

"Oh I'm really not so clever. People are just stupid." Sherlock glanced at Jim quickly, appreciating the fury climbing like vines up his pale face. He stood, "Of course, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? How _stupid_ some people can be, that a fifth year could see straight through their little plans."

Jim grinned wickedly, "Oh? Got it all figured out, do you Holmes? Alright then, let's hear it."

"Your father is working for someone, someone who has promised great power to your entire family. But the crimes he is responsible for don't stay very well covered. SH has seen through all of them, has cracked them, making your father stand out in the public eye, making him look like a fool. He doesn't know who SH is, though. But you do." Sherlock felt a small amount of pleasure, finally admitting all he knows.

"Oh that's right, very clever Sherly, very clever." Jim's grin was one of glee, a wicked, horrible happiness.

"But why not tell him, your father? Why keep it a secret, handle it on your own? Hoping to get some of the glory? Hoping to finally outshine daddy, Jim? Hmm?" Sherlock smirked as he saw the fury once again flash against his face. "You think you're smarter than him, in fact you believe this benefactor, this dark wizard, will value you over him if you prove yourself. But you can't do it alone. So you invoke the help of Severus Snape, a boy you know with self-esteem issues and a heart that easy hates. Told him about this wizard, promised him greatness if he could help bring me down. Is that right?"

"Very good. You're better than I thought." Jim adjusted his tie, staring straight into Sherlock's eyes, clearly enjoying their little game.

"You won't succeed though." Sherlock said, voice dropping low and deep and deadly, "You've threatened me and my friend. You've crossed a line, Moriarty, and now you will be caught. I know exactly how to stop you, exactly how your mind works. So one step in the wrong direction and I will _end_ you." He hissed, wand pointed under Jim's chin.

"What's going on here?" It was John, standing behind Jim with his wand already out and pointed at his back. He stood tall, eyes narrowed as Jim turned to grin at him.

"Oh Sherlock and I were just having a nice little chat. Careful now, boys. Wouldn't want to make a scene." He winked at Sherlock and strode away and into the castle.

**I apologize for this being so short. I'm close to wrapping this one up and needed to stop this chapter on a nice point to set up for the last two chapters.**

**I appreciate you guys sticking with me through this. Please continue to leave me reviews!**

**-xo**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hello! Here it is, the epic climax/finale! I hope you all enjoy it!**

**-xo**

Chapter 9

John refused to allow Sherlock out of his sight after the confrontation with Moriarty. Since he was no longer practicing for Quidditch, he had nothing better to do than to pester his friend, becoming oddly protective of him. They studied together, ate all their meals aside from dinner together, and when one of them needed to talk to the other outside of their time together, they practiced their Patronuses in order to send each other quick messages. Sherlock had, of course, mastered the complicated spell within a matter of weeks, but John's still needed work; the silver corgi would sometimes form completely, and sometimes he just ended up with a ball of light. It was frustrating for John, having Sherlock be so much better at everything than he was, aside from Potions of course.

June was rapidly approaching and with it their final examinations and worse, their O.W.L.s. Sherlock was unconcerned about either, having memorized the majority of the curriculum, but John's stress levels were high. They would sit in their typical common room and Sherlock would lean against the side of John's armchair, sitting on the floor, his snow leopard patronus stalking about the room chasing Hudson, while John took furious notes, three open textbooks on his lap, muttering to himself.

"I'm bored." Sherlock would sigh, wishing he could be stalking Snape and Moriarty instead of sitting at John's beck and call to answer his questions.

"What else is new?" John muttered, agitated.

"Can't we do something else?" Sherlock groaned, his patronus disappearing with a little pop. "We've been at this for weeks."

"Sherlock our O.W.L.s are next week!" John snapped at him, "I know you don't care but I need high marks if I want to go on to be a healer so could you _please_ shut up?"

Sherlock sighed again, standing up and pacing throughout the room. He shot a spell at the wall, leaving a scorch mark there. John rolled his eyes but otherwise ignored him.

The next week flew by. They took their O.W.L.s, Sherlock always the first one to complete the exams. He waited for John afterward, and they would go for walks along the lake, not speaking as John calmed himself down after each test. He took stress hard, especially in his leg, which Sherlock was sure didn't hurt anymore; he only limped on it out of habit, and when he was agitated. The weather was warm and comforting, and the morning after they had finished their exams Sherlock was awoken by the silver corgi hovering over his face, the light waking him up. "Meet me at the lake." John's voice whispered, careful not to wake up the others, and Sherlock got dressed quickly, trotting up to the front of the castle. John was waiting there, shirt sleeves rolled up, broomstick in his hand.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope. But we're going flying." John grinned, his eyes alight with mischief.

"_We_? I don't fly." Sherlock crossed his arms.

"Yup. You do today, let's go." He took the broom and mounted it, motioning for Sherlock to sit behind him. He stayed firmly where he was, actual terror in his gray eyes. "Oh come on you big baby, I'm sick of being boring and I'm an excellent flyer, you'll be fine."

Sherlock, never one to back down from a challenge, hesitantly climbed on behind John his hands lightly at his waist. As soon as they lifted into the air he panicked, wrapping his arms like a vice around John's middle. John laughed, really laughed, for the first time in months. The sound made Sherlock relax a bit, and he hesitantly peeked over John's shoulder to the school grounds. It was beautiful, of course, but absolutely terrifying, the wind roaring in his ears making it seem like they were going much faster than they actually were. John whooped and leaned forward, making them take off like a shot over the vast expanse of the lake. He laughed again as Sherlock cried out softly, closing his eyes.

There were others flying too, little dots of black along the skyline over the grounds, people celebrating the end of the school year and exams. Sherlock began to relax a little, and he looked over the castle. That's when he saw them. Two figures on the north astronomy tower. He would have recognized Snape's posture from an even father point. He nudged John and pointed to them.

"What do you want to do?" He asked, slowing down slightly.

"Go to them." Sherlock said instantly, deciding he was finished chasing after Moriarty like a fool. John reluctantly circled around and they landed on the ledge of the open tower.

"Ah! Boys, so nice you could join us. Enjoying your little date?" Moriarty grinned wickedly, wand already drawn. Behind him, Snape was avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"What's this about, Moriarty?" Sherlock said through gritted teeth, pulling out his own wand. Next to him, he heard the broomstick fall to the ground, John pointing his wand at Snape silently, ever protective.

"Oh I think you know exactly what this is about, Sherly dear." He thrilled, pointing his wand at the trap door that led to the open platform of the tower. It swung shut with a thud. "We were waiting for you, of course. Time to take our lovely SH to his grave; wouldn't want him interfering with our master's rise to power."

"Your _master_?" John shot, looking disgusted and confused.

"Oh yes. He is a great wizard, too bad you'll never get to see him in action. Your friends will, though, they all will. One day very soon the entire world will know his name." Jim's voice was bored, but Sherlock saw the white-knuckled grip on his wand, the slight shake in his legs. He was nervous, failure would mean forever staying in his father's shadow, never rising to a greater power.

"Quite sure of yourself, aren't you Jim?" Sherlock replied languidly, his posture relaxed, reading Moriarty's moves. He let John focus on Snape, his entire attention on Jim. When he shot a spell at him, Sherlock was able to easily block it, gray eyes flashing. "I'd watch that temper if I were you. It'll get you into trouble one of these days."

Snape made his move then, flames shooting from the tip of his wand. John lunged forward with the deflective spell, grunting as though it was nothing but another Quidditch match. Soon the spells were flying at a rapid pace, Moriarty's face set in fury as he shot at Sherlock again and again, each time being easily deflected. Sherlock could see his posture, the way he flicked his wrist, could decide what he was doing the moment before the spell was shot, and defended against it accordingly. Snape was harder; many of his spells were of his own creation. John ground his teeth, doing his best to avoid the attacks, but when a ball of green light shot toward him, hitting the broomstick on the floor, he actually cried out. The broom was alight in green flames, giving off an all too familiar purple smoke. He gagged, moving away from it, and Sherlock looked up to Snape.

"You set the fire…in the shop." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Why?" he spat, and Moriarty smirked, backing off his attack so Snape could step forward.

"You defended him, defended all of them. Chose those horrible _Gryffindors_ over me, even though you knew how horrid they are! First Lilly, and then you! I was sick of it, sick of being everyone's last choice. Jim came to me and said that the Dark Lord would choose me, would _accept_ me. Of course I set the fire, who else could be so clever? It should have killed him and the rest of those selfish prats." Snape's voice was like acid, hatred dripping in every syllable. Sherlock should have known it would all boil down to Lilly. Somehow it always did.

"Time to choose a side, kiddies!" Jim seemed on the verge of bouncing with glee. "Oh I'm _sure_ the Dark Lord could find a special place for your talents, Sherlock. Join us, won't you? Isn't it about time you were recognized for your genius? Don't you _deserve_ it?" his voice was like a purr, and John looked to Sherlock nervously. His friend was still, gray eyes narrowed at Moriarty.

"Sherlock…Sherlock tell him, tell him no, Sherlock!" John murmured, his voice panicked, fist tightening around the golden lion at the base of his wand.

Moriarty smirked, holding out his hand as though to shake it, and Sherlock slowly approached him, hand reaching for his. Jim's glee was uncontrolled, his weight on his toes, feet together as the taller boy moved forward. Snape, behind him, and taken a step back in surprise. It was all too easy, really. "NOW, John!" He yelled, and they both shot a spell directly into the two's chests, making them fall over the edge of the tower and spiral toward the ground. They ran to the edge peering down just in time to see Snape use some sort of hovering charm to catch them before the deadly impact of the ground. Moriarty looked up at them, and though far below Sherlock could hear his high voice call up to him.

"The Dark Lord will rise, Sherlock Holmes! And when he does, you will both pay!" With that, the two dark figures turned and sprinted into the Forbidden Forest, disappearing without a trace.

Sherlock slowly turned to John, who looked like he was nearly about to pass out. The flames on his broomstick had smoldered out, and he slid against a column beside it to the ground, holding his head in his hands. "I thought…for a moment I thought you would go with him." He whispered, his whole body shaking.

"You really think so low of me?" Sherlock couldn't keep the hurt out of his tone as he stood over his friend. John looked up at him, tears streaming from the blue eyes.

"Of course not! It's just…it makes sense, you know? Wanting to be recognized for your talent…just, not through some sort of dark wizard…" he shuddered, no doubt haunted by the memory of his father. "What were they going on about anyway, the 'Dark Lord'?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly, "I certainly hope we don't ever find out." He said quietly, holding out a hand to help John up.

The school year ended the next day, Headmaster Dippet mentioning the disappearance of Snape and Moriarty, and the rumors that there was darkness afoot. Sherlock knew Severus would not return to his home in the country, would never step foot in that unhappy place. He had always had a slight fear that the boy would be pushed too far one day, would give up the pretenses of goodness and step foot onto a pathway to hell. He just never imagined it would happen so soon. As he packed his things into his trunk, he looked at the untouched bed, his things still littered across the bedside table, and frowned. It seemed so weak to take such a dark path, too easy. He was contemplating this the entire way up the staircase to the entryway, where Mycroft stood among the crowd, eyes scanning every wall and stair.

"Going to miss it?" he asked his brother quietly. Mycroft looked at him with a slight smirk.

"Of course. But I've got big plans, Sherly. You know that." Mycroft sighed and turned then, walking with his brother for the last time to the Hogwarts express.

Yes, he did know that. He knew that Mycroft would become someone important, that they would one day soon be seeing the Holmes name in the papers. Perhaps sooner than even Mycroft thought. He had already sent his letter to the ministry, announcing his identity as SH; with any luck the news would spread that a sixteen year old boy had successfully solved nearly a dozen ministry crimes, that Jonathan Moriarty was incompetent. With any luck, the man would lose his job, giving Mycroft the opportunity to step in. Yes, the Holmes name was soon to become very well known. He knew that perfectly well. As he looked to John, who was waiting for him on the platform, he knew that this boy, the Gryffindor Beater, the very definition of a royal prick, would be a very important part of his life from this point forward. And that made Sherlock Holmes a very, very happy man.

**Well, there it is, folks! The completion of A Study in Magic! I hope you liked it, I really enjoyed writing it and I cannot wait to post up my sequel, A Hopeless Place. Please leave me a review and let me know what you thought of it, and if any of you are artists and would like to draw something inspired from this fic please let me know here or on Tumblr! (my url is the same as my username) Thank you so much for reading, it truly means a lot to me!**

**-xo**


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